


Growing Pains

by leigh_adams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Ficlet, Post War, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh_adams/pseuds/leigh_adams
Summary: Marriage is hard, and it's no different for Bill and Fleur.





	Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This was written as part of my [2010 Christmas Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/126801.html). Molly requested Bill/Fleur (one of my faves!) with the prompt "a first Christmas." For those of you who don't speak _la belle langue_ , hover your cursor over the French phrases to see the English translation. Molly, I hope you enjoy!

The Cornish night was cold, the wind brisk as it blew in from the sea. The stars shone down brightly, casting a pale glow on the waves as they crashed into the sandy beach. Half past midnight, and the tiny cottage was quiet. Only the dull roar of Ron's snores echoed through the second story of the house. 

It was Christmas morning, early as it was, but Fleur couldn't sleep. She stood on the sloping back lawn, thin silk robe tied tightly around her waist. A slight shiver rippled over her skin as the wind pulled and played with her long, white-blonde hair, causing her to cross her arms tightly over her chest. It was cold, and she should be inside—but she needed room to breathe, to  _think_.

As a little girl, she'd often romanticized her future marriage. She'd put up an inner idea of life as a princess, with a husband who treated her as such—doted on her, catered to her every whim,  _loved_  her. Bill loved her, and she loved him—more than anything, really. But marriage itself was  _hard_. Her husband had a temper to match her own, and anytime they rowed, there were usually tears, shouts, and broken objects scattered about the cottage.

Her first Christmas as a wife wasn't supposed to be like this. They were suppose to spend the long winter nights making love, wrapped in each other's arms until they didn't have the strength to move. There wasn't  _supposed_  to be a massive evil sweeping across the country, threatening their friends and family. 

And Bill's little brother was  _supposed_  to be helping Harry and Hermione, not sleeping in her guest room.

Fleur sighed, the exhale sending a visible puff of air into the cold night. In some ways, she was still trying to adjust to her new life. The Weasleys were loud and invasive, never giving much thought to the premise of personal space. The food was rich, the gatherings noisy, and her mother-in-law had a ridiculous obsession with that awful singer, Celestina Warbeck.

It was selfish, but she sometimes missed her old life. The late nights dancing with her girlfriends in Paris, spending summers in Nice with her parents and Gabrielle. The warm spring evenings at Beauxbatons, when the light breeze sent the smells from the nearby lavender fields wafting through the chateaux. The food,  _mon dieu_ , the food. Bouillabaisse,  _l'escargots_  swimming in a light butter sauce, steak au poivre, salad niçoise. Much better than heavy shepherd's pies and Yorkshire puddings drenched in something called "gravy." 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't hear Bill's footsteps behind her, didn't notice that he was there until his arms wrapped around her waist and drew her to him. Despite her train of thought, her lips curled upwards, and she let her head fall back to rest against his shoulder. "'Allo,  _chéri_ ," she murmured. 

"It's late, Fleur," he replied, dropping a kiss to her forehead. "And it's cold. You should be inside."

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted softly, tipping her gaze up to his. "I will come inside soon, I promise."

His arms tightened, and Bill snorted softly in amusement. "Won't be going inside without you, love," he said. "You've been so quiet lately. Everything alright?"

" _Oui_. Eet's fine," she said automatically.

"Please don't lie to me," he countered. His gaze locked on hers, and his blue eyes were bright with intensity—and something else, lumbering beneath the surface; something that came with the scars that ran the length of his face. "Please tell me."

"Bill, eet's nothing," she implored, turning in his arms. She wrapped hers around his waist, pressing tightly against him. 

"Are you unhappy here?" he asked, his tone slightly anxious. "With me?"

" _Quoi?_ " she gasped. "Why would you say somezing like zat?"

"You're so quiet these days. I see the way you sit in the kitchen and stare out the window. You think I don't notice, but you do. When we make love, it's like you can't hold on to me tight enough." His hands splayed out over her lower back, supporting her against him. "Is it me? Do you miss France? What did I do?"

"Bill, you did nothing," she murmured, going up on tiptoe to nuzzle his jaw. " _Je promis_. I miss 'ome sometimes, but zat is normal. Eet…" she trailed off, glancing down at their lower halves. 

"Eet is just 'ard sometimes. Zat is all."

"Hey." One hand moved to cup her chin, tugging her gaze back up to meet his. "I know it's hard, love. It's going to take a lot of work, and circumstances are already less than ideal. But I love you," he ducked his head to brush a kiss over her brow, "and you love me. And in the end, that's what really matters."

Fleur's insides warmed at his warms; a happy feeling spreading out through her chest and sending little tingles down to her already-numb toes. " _Tu as raison_ ," she murmured. "I love you, Bill Weasley."

" _Je t'adore aussi_ , Fleur Delacour-Weasley," he replied, pressing his lips to hers in a soft, slow kiss. After a long, rather steamy moment in which Fleur seriously considered letting her robe drop to the ground, he pulled back and gave her a wolfish grin. "Let's take this inside. I'm thinking that some Christmas shagging is in order."

"Zat," she said, fiddling with his shirt, "ees a brilliant idea. Take me to bed, chéri."


End file.
